


Playing the Game

by afrikate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the car, we were waiting for our lives to start their endings, In the car, we were never making love"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for the highwaymiles challenge over at LJ. 
> 
> Thanks to simplybeing for the fabulous beta.

Dean's hand inside his pants. Dean's voice, rough in his ear whispering filthy dirty words, and this is familiar, a sense-memory from age seventeen. He's so hard, Dean working him with tight strokes up, circling the head of his cock, and then down again. Spreading the wet of his precome slick under his grip. Dean drives a hard rhythm and Sam's arching up, desperate for more contact, more friction, more. When he comes, over Dean's hands with Dean's tongue in his ear, it's everything he remembers and everything he left behind. It may even be some sort of metaphor because he missed it every day he was gone—even buried between Jess's thighs, her hair all around him—a deeper, darker voice winding through his brain, making his breath hitch, hips stutter, back arch. When the Impala starts up, the rumble echoes through his balls, and as he tucks himself back in, he glances over at Dean, gazing out at the road, intent on their destination as always.

***

The first time it happened Sam literally froze, gone still and silent, breath held, like he was hiding in the woods from some dark creature on a hunt. Dean's hand on the crotch of his jeans, so hot he couldn't help but react, but other than his cock he was so still, everything held in check. Then Dean's hands flicking open the buttons on his jeans, and Dean's breath along his cheek. The first touch of Dean's hand under his shorts on naked flesh and Sam snapped, coming from little more than fingers brushing the head of his cock. Dean had laughed and pulled his hand back, wiping it on Sam's jeans, and then pulled back onto the road from the shoulder. Ten minutes later, while he was still trying to figure out what had happened, Dean was grinning and saying, "Told you I was going in the right direction, moron. See, signs for the Sunset Inn. Bet Dad's already waiting for us."

The second and third times Sam was just as shocked; a hand down his pants, Dean barely touching him before he shot, coming hard and shocking. When he thought back he tried to see if there was a pattern, some event that set Dean off, where the only appropriate response was jerking Sam off. But if there was, it was a mystery locked in his brother's brain. Dean had always been something of an enigma to him—seeming easy to read, but impenetrable below the surface. The fourth time, though, he decided not to question it, just enjoy it; maybe try lasting longer than five seconds, because he was tense and waiting for some brotherly humiliation on that score.

That time, he got an inkling right before they were pulling over on the shoulder of a dark Montana road sometime after midnight, and when Dean's hand landed on his thigh he arched up a little, still confused but eager for that hot grip. Dean seemed to sense it, too, because while he opened up Sam's jeans one-handed, he leaned in close, closer than any time before, hot breath in Sam's ear, then words, while his hand slid down and under and wrapped around Sam's dick. "Want this, huh, Sammy, want my hand?" Slow slide up with a twist at the head, then back down, and the dual stimulation of hand and words made his dick impossibly harder. "Like this, don't you, Sammy, look at you, so hard," a snap of his hips as Dean repeated the slow slide-and-twist, legs opening wider, sinking onto the seat. Dean was practically lying on top of him, still jerking him, a steady stream of dirty words in his ear, and Sam tried so hard to hold back. Dean seemed to sense it, though, and worked harder, saying, "Come on, Sam, that's it, give it up, just—" and Sam was coming so hard, pulsing in waves over Dean's hand. This time Dean didn't wipe his hand on Sam's clothes. This time he licked it clean, before turning back to the wheel. Checking the mirrors, he pulled back onto the road, accelerating until the Impala was roaring under them, the vibrations doing nothing to ease Sam back down from what had happened.

It happened with more frequency than it should have, though still with no predictable pattern, and always when they were in the Impala, roaring down some road. Often they were heading somewhere to meet up with Dad or away from a hunt back toward the small town where they stayed that year, in one place so Sam could finish high school. Sometimes they were close by—to or from the next town over where there was a dollar movie theatre and a larger Goodwill—and once, memorably, after Dean picked him up from drama practice; pulling over on a residential side street, Dean's hand moving hard and fast, not drawing it out, only driving him higher and higher, then driving away before anyone came out to see if they were having car trouble.

They never, ever talked about it; Dean's manner afterward never encouraged conversation, and Sam was unsure of what he could say. When Sam thought about it, he didn't want it to end, even if he never knew what would set it off; whether something he did invited it, or if it was all Dean. He just waited for it to happen, waited like he was waiting for everything else—high school graduation, college acceptance letters, the end of the crazy Winchester life he'd been living.

Once, just once, it was more than hands on his dick and breath in his ear, though it started that way, on the ride back from Idaho, speeding in the night towards home. The windows were open and the late summer heat settled around them as they pulled to a stop and Dean's hand flicked familiar buttons at his fly. Something was different this time, though, and Sam never figured out what, but Dean's mouth slid lower from his cheek, down, down, and Sam could barely believe it when Dean's mouth—that mouth that murmured dirty porn into his ear—closed over him, wet and unbelievably hotter than his hand. Sam stared down at the head in his lap and clutched at the door handle, bucking his hips up once, twice, again, while Dean's cheeks hollowed as he sucked. It was too much to look at, and then his eyes closed and Sam was coming harder than ever before. When he opened his eyes again, the Impala was rumbling beneath them and Dean was staring down the road, mouth a grim line. Two days later Sam was on a bus to California, too busy fuming over the screaming match with his Dad to wonder what had been different that night, and if Dean had maybe known it was his last chance.

***

Sam never expected it to start back up again, the random handjobs in the car on the road from evil to evil. He's not sure what he wants to do about it, either. Dean, he thinks, probably delights in taking him by surprise. It's probably some sort of game, where only Dean knows the score: Dean 350, Sammy -200. The sort of score Dean always tries to get. Sam's tempted by his inner seventeen-year-old self to let it happen, to simply take what his brother's offering on his terms. But Sam stopped playing by his family's rules the morning he walked out with his father's shouts ringing in his ear, and he's not really interested in playing hormonal teenager any more. Time, he thinks, to even the score in this game; he's never really taken losing graciously. So the next time, when Dean pulls over on a three-a-m stretch of roadway and with no warning or reason and slips his hand into Sam's jeans, Sam grabs his arm and uses it as leverage to swing himself up and over until he's straddling Dean, whose hand has twisted warningly on his cock.

Dean's startled enough to say, "What the fuck, Sammy," and Sam really, really wishes it were light enough to see the expression on Dean's face. He doesn't say anything just yet, though, simply grinds down on Dean's lap, and Dean bucks up against him, hard. Well, now he knows that at least Dean was getting something out of it too, all these years. He gives his brother credit for more control than he expected.

He leans in, licks up Dean's jaw to his ear, sucks the lobe into his mouth, bites down a little, just a little, and Dean's bucking up again. Likes a little pain, and Sam guesses they aren't too different after all as he grinds down again, uses his hands to get underneath Dean's jacket and shirts to pinch nipples and scratch lines.

"Like this, don't you, Dean," Sam starts, and he wonders if his grin comes out in his voice. He keeps talking, sliding deeper into that lower register, "Always taking care of me, Dean, always bringing me off, huh. Maybe it's time you took a little for yourself, yeah? You like this, right, my hands on you this time, my ass. You want my ass, Dean, want to fuck it? Want my mouth on your dick, want me to suck you like you did to me on the way back from Idaho?" Dean is groaning, his breath hitching, hips pumping up, desperate to get leverage, friction. Sam pushes him back down and rubs against him, his cock harder that it ever was when he was just a passive participant.

He reaches between them to flick open the fly of Dean's jeans, one-handed; easy, warm metal slipping through the worn denim. The front of the car is too close for him to slide down, so he leans over a moment, to open the car door, and Dean picks just that moment to thrust up, hard, so Sam's slipping to the right, and no, that's not how they're playing tonight. Tonight they're playing by Sam's rules. He lets himself keep going, falling through the open door and landing on his knees, but he keeps hold of Dean and drags him along, too.

"Sam!" Fighting and struggling, and he really should know better, Sam thinks, as he keeps tugging while Dean fights it, until Sam has him just where he wants him.

He looks up as he's pulling Dean's cock free of his jeans, his hold on it stilling Dean. "Shut up, Dean," he says, eyes bright, and then it's perfect as he slides his mouth over the head of Dean's cock, making him buck and cry out. He sucks a little, before swiping his tongue around and then licking up and down, over. He's never done this before, but it's easier than he expected and he knows what he likes; assumes Dean will be happy with the same. He licks, then takes the whole thing in his mouth and slides down to where his fist is still circling Dean's dick, then up, does it again and adds some suction. Dean's got a hand in his hair now, holding on, voice low and he's muttering dirty porn, like he always does. Sam barely pays attention to this, though, because just being here, sucking his brother, beating him at his own game, whatever that is anyway, has him harder than anything, and if he weren't so busy trying to hold Dean's hips down, he'd have his jeans open and his own cock out in the open air.

He finds a rhythm—sucking, then sliding up to the head, with a lick around the crown, a flick on the edge—sucking his way back down, until Dean holds him down and he sucks, hard, harder. When Dean comes it's not really a surprise, and he swallows as much as he can, then lets the rest spill out onto the ground. When he looks up, Dean's eyes are closed, his head thrown back. As he watches, Dean half-opens his eyes, lazy and sated, smiles, and says, "You need help with that?" His gesture is wide, but Sam knows what he means; comes up, closer, and lets Dean slide back into the car and tug him along. When Dean settles against his side, solid and familiar, and slips his hand into Sam's jeans, he knows exactly what's coming—what Dean is going to whisper in his ear, how his hand will move over Sam's dick. But he's happy enough to let it all occur as before. Now that he's evened the score, now that he knows he can play the game just as well as Dean.

When they're back on the road, miles of highway running ahead and behind, the Impala rumbling beneath them, Sam stretches and smiles and sprawls as much as he can. He's eager now, for the next town, the next ghost, the next move Dean makes in this game they're playing. It'll have to end, eventually, but in the meantime he plans to keep a closer eye on the score.


End file.
